


Numb

by Doteruna



Series: Notebook Scribbles [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doteruna/pseuds/Doteruna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, Derek thinks Stiles is messing with him when he flips open his phone and Stiles doesn't say anything. He's about to hang up when he hears a shaky, ragged breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numb

At first, Derek thinks Stiles is messing with him when he flips open his phone and Stiles doesn't say anything. He's about to hang up when he hears a shaky, ragged breath; so he says, "Stiles?"

"H-Hello?"

"Stiles, I don't have time for this right now. I'm busy."

And he is. Derek is sitting at the small folding table in the old Hale house, flipping through pages of a tome Deaton gave him on witches. He's been there for three hours already, and he's tired, and cranky. So he snaps at Stiles over the phone in retaliation. 

"I-I think I need help. Who is this?"

Derek's fingers stop turning the page and he switches his cell phone from its position balancing on his shoulder to his hand, sitting forward. 

"Stiles? What's wrong?"

"I found this cell phone in my pocket and this was the first number on the contacts, so I called it, and it said Sourwolf, and I'm in some forest and I have no idea how I got here. Who are you? Can you help me? I need help!"

Stiles' voice gets more and more panicky as he speaks, and Derek frowning. It was definitely Stiles; he could hear his distinct heartbeat over the phone. 

"Stiles, you're not making any sense. Do you remember who you are?"

"Am I Stiles? Please, whoever you are, there's a lot of blood and I think I'm going to pass out." Derek hears Stiles swallow audibly, and he tenses when Stiles says 'blood'. "I can't feel my leg."

Dread shoots through Derek. Stiles was hurt; bad enough that he called Derek of all people, even though it seems as if he has no clue who Derek even is. He stands up so quickly his chair fall over backwards, darting out the door. 

"Stiles, stay on the phone. I'm coming to get you, you said you were in a forest. Keep talking, I'll be able to hear your voice." Derek yanks the crumbling door nearly off its hinges on his way out, pausing to sniff the cold night air. There's no trace of any abnormal scent; nothing but the trees and dirt and animals of the preserve. He feels foolish for a moment. Just because Stiles said he was in a forest didn't mean he actually was in the preserve. Although, he thinks, he just saw Stiles a few hours ago for a pack meeting. He couldn't have gotten very far, and the preserve was the only wooded area for a long distance. 

"What's your name? I don't remember anything, and my whole body hurts, but I can't move my leg and I can't sit up to look at anything--"

"Stiles, stay calm. My name is Derek, I need you to look around. Do you see water of any kind? A lake?"

There's several seconds of silence except for Stiles' harsh breathing, panting really, and Derek begins to jog through the dense trees while he waits. Stiles sounds scared and lost, but Derek can hear the strong heartbeat pounding away; that was a good sign at least. 

Until it started fluttering. 

"Derek, oh my god, there's a lot of blood. Please, please find me, I can see some rocks near me. Boulders--" He cuts off with a groan of pain, and Derek begins to sprint towards the only outcropping of boulders he knows, about a quarter mile from the house. He runs as fast as he can, and when he smells blood, he runs even faster. 

Derek skids around a clump of pines, extended claws scraping in the dirt, to see a dark form huddled on the ground at the base of a huge rock. There's a puddle the size of a basketball around one of his legs as Derek moves closer--

And drops to his knees next to Stiles in shock, because one of his legs isn't there. 

It isn't there. 

Stiles' jeans were ripped jaggedly at the knee, and Derek can see the bloody, red mess of the very top of his shin, but the rest of his leg was gone. Stiles' red hoodie was scrunched up against the wound, but it wasn't staunching the steady drip of blood trickling into the leaves. 

Stiles is pale and sweaty, his cell phone forgotten in the dried grass near his hand. His T-shirt is muddied and torn, and Derek can see bruises littering his frame. His amber eyes are huge and terrified, but glassy, and Derek knows he's lost a lot of blood. 

"Oh, fuck," he whispers as his hands hover over Stiles' body. The teen is shivering in the cold air, one hand scrabbling in the dirt looking for the cell phone he must've dropped. "Fuck, Stiles." 

Stiles just whimpers, his forehead creased in pain, and his chest is heaving with gasping breaths that rasp through his lungs as Derek finally moves, packing the hoodie tighter against the stub of his leg and pulling up Deaton's number on his own phone. When the vet answers, Derek just growls, "Stiles is hurt, I'm coming over," into the phone and drops it, leaving it on the forest floor next to Stiles' as he slides one arm underneath his neck and the other just under his ass. 

Derek hefts Stiles into his arms and cringes at the way the boy cries out weakly, his breathing getting shallower by the minute. 

"D'rek?" he slurs, his eyes drooping, and Derek takes off at a dead sprint.

 

When Deaton comes out of the operating room, wiping Stiles' blood off his hands with a towel, Derek is sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall, staring at the flakes of dried blood on his own fingers. 

"He'll live," he tells the werewolf, and Derek closes his eyes. "But obviously, he'll need a lot of help adjusting to one leg."

Derek makes a sound that is awfully similar to a whine.

"There's a small knot on the side of his head from a blunt object, likely where his amnesia came from. I'll know more when he wakes up from the anesthetic I gave him. Until then, we can only hope his memory returns. You can see him, if you want."

 

Stiles looks small and frail on the examination table, skin paler than usual and his moles standing out starkly. There's a bandage around his temple and several around his thigh; Deaton was able to save Stiles' knee. 

Derek drops into the chair next to the table, taking one of Stiles' hands in his; his own fingers seem huge compared to Stiles'. He looks at the sleeping face and thinks that Stiles just has to remember him.

He has to remember who loves him.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's super shitty, but I thought of this during class and drilled it out in between homework assignments; it's whatcha get :P


End file.
